mist gathers up like a curtain, the theatre clear;
Stage of unequal conflict, and triumph purchased too dear!
Half our boot treasures of gallanthood there, with axe and with glaive,
One against ten,--what of that?--We are ready for glory or grave!
There, Spain and her thousands nearing, with lightning-tongued weapons of
war;--
Ebro's swarthy sons, and the bands from Epirus afar;
Crescia, Gonzaga, del Vasto,--world-famous names of affright,
Veterans of iron and blood, insatiate engines of fight:--
But ours were Norris and Essex and Stanley and Willoughby grim,
And the waning Dudley star, and the star that will never be dim,
Star of Philip the peerless,--and now at height of his noon,
Astrophel!--not for thyself but for England extinguish'd too soon!

4

Red walls of Zutphen behind; before them, Spain in her might:--
O! 'tis not war, but a game of heroic boyish delight!
For on, like a bolt-head of steel, go the fifty, dividing their way,
Through and over the brown mail-shirts,--Farnese's choicest array;
Over and through, and the curtel-axe flashes, the plumes in their pride
Sink like the larch to the hewer, a death-mown avenue wide:
While the foe in his stubbornness flanks them and bars them, with
merciless aim
Shooting from musket and saker a scornful death-tongue of flame.
As in an autumn afar, the Six Hundred in Chersonese hew'd
Their road through a host, for their England and honour's sake wasting
their blood,
Foolishness wiser than wisdom!--So these, since Azincourt morn,
First showing the world the calm open-eyed rashness of Englishmen born!

5

Foes ere the cloud went up, black Norris and Stanley in one
Pledge iron hands and kiss swords, each his mate's, in the face of the
sun,
Warm with the generous wine of the battle; and Willoughby's might
To the turf bore Crescia, and lifted again,--knight honouring knight;
All in the hurry and turmoil:--where North, half-booted and rough,
Launch'd on the struggle, and Sidney struck onward, his cuisses thrown
off,
Rash over-courage of poet and youth!--while the memories, how
At the joust long syne She look'd on, as he triumph'd, were hot on his
brow,
'Stella! mine own, my own star!'--and he sigh'd:--and towards him a flame
Shot its red signal; a shriek!--and the viewless messenger came;
Found the unguarded gap, the approach left bare to the prey,
Where through the limb to the life the death-stroke shatter'd a way.

6

--Astrophel! England's pride!